Shoulders
by SakiSaki
Summary: One: In which Spot admires, envies, resents, threatens, and looks up to Race.
1. Prologue

shoul·der (shōldər)

_n.  
_1.  
a. The joint connecting the arm with the torso.  
b. The part of the human body between the neck and upper arm.  
2. The area of an item or object that serves as an abutment or surrounds a projection, as:  
a. The end surface of a board from which a tenon projects.  
b. _Printing:_ The flat surface on the body of type that extends beyond the letter or character.  
3. The edge or border running on either side of a roadway.

_v._, -dered, -der·ing, -ders.

_v.tr.  
_1. To carry or place (a burden, for example) on the shoulders.  
2. To take on; assume: _shouldered the blame for his friends.  
_3. To push or apply force to, with or as if with the shoulder.  
4. To make (one's way) by or as if by shoving obstacles with one's shoulders.

_v.intr.  
_1. To push with the shoulders.  
2. To make one's way by or as if by shoving obstacles with one's shoulders.

_idioms:  
_put (one's) shoulder to the wheel  
1. To apply oneself vigorously; make a concentrated effort.  
shoulder to shoulder  
1. In close proximity; side by side.  
2. In close cooperation.  
straight from the shoulder  
1. Delivered directly from the shoulder. Used of a punch.  
2. Honestly; candidly.

Middle English shulder, from Old English sculdor.

**Shoulders:** a series of one-shots revolving around said word, written specifically for characters the author has not yet focused upon in her previous and/or planned works.


	2. Small Operation

_Wit, Bricktop, and the briefly mentioned Ink and Knotty all belong to me. The rest do not._

* * *

i

Spot felt the cold stares of all his followers watching over his shoulder and boring into the back of his head; the glare was then transmitted through the skull and out his own eyes, fixed now upon the traitor walking toward him.

Problem was, he wasn't really a traitor. He was Race. And he was coming this way.

"Well, well, well," Spot called, because the repetition gave him time to do some quick thinking. "If it ain't Racetrack Higgins. And who's that fella behind ya?"

Race threw a glance behind him at the second figure, and by the time his face returned forward it was plastered with a smirk.

"This here is Itey," he answered, never breaking stride. "Tagged along to see the sights. Especially the sight o' you up there."

Race had a funny sort of walk that Spot couldn't help but notice with amusement. He tried to put words to it, but an accurate description wasn't in his vocabulary. It wasn't quite limp, wasn't quite swagger. He would strut as if his knees were short on oil; they bent deeply with each step, shoulders hunched slightly forward and gaze trained just ahead of his shoes - and then, as the foot reached the ground, the leg would snap out and straighten, jerking his back, shoulders and eyes up for an instant before starting the process again. It commanded a certain amount of respect, but one could see it was carrying something shrouded – a burden perhaps.

He took a deep breath, wrought with mocking, and Spot knew a wisecrack was on its way.

"Yep, Itey, this is Brooklyn for ya. Behold the beauty o' the landscape." He waved his cap in front of his face and feigned disgust. "Smells like a sardine can, don't it?"

He gave a toothy grin, his tongue poking out between the cracks, though his friend appeared too nervous to respond.

"He's smart enough to know you ain't funny." Spot clambered down from his perch and gestured to Itey, who furrowed his eyebrows and was surely trying to think of a reply. Evidently, nothing came.

"He's just chokin' on the stench," Race said calmly, expression unchanged from the satisfied smirk of one who is always lucky. "But I lived with it for damn knows how many years, so I think he can stand it for the next couple of minutes."

In the time it took to land on the dock with a heavy thud, Spot decided to let that go and cut to the heart of their unexpected visit. Of course, a visit to Brooklyn was never completely unexpected: there were eyes everywhere.

"So why're you really here?"

Race looked vaguely offended. "Can't I stop by and say hello? Why do I gotta have a reason? You only available by appointment now?"

"Why do ya gotta bring a man along unless it's bad news you'se carryin'?"

Race pulled a cigar out of his vest pocket and ran it beneath his nose, breathing in the smell. Spot had an embarrassing resentment for cigars; they seemed to belong to older boys, their appeal a secret of age and maturity. And anyway, Spot had looked absolutely ridiculous the one time he'd attempted smoking them, not that he'd ever admit it.

He watched Race strike a match and roll the flame over the end, taking a few puffs and tossing the match over the edge of the dock. He exhaled and the smoke circled lazily around the three of them. Spot didn't like waiting, and was almost impressed that Race was deliberately trying his patience. Almost.

"'At's a point, Spot. At's a point, alright." His eyes cut significantly to the left, where one of Spot's men was cracking his knuckles loud enough to be noticeable. "I'm just here to talk, though. But o' course ya knew that already, bein' leader an' all."

That was interesting.

"Bitter, are ya?"

"'Bout what?"

"Bitter that ya owe me," Spot said. His eyes darted back to his men, wishing more than he cared to confess that they would go away and allow a private conversation to transpire for once. But though he had power, and though he had the authority to order them elsewhere, that was the surest way to lose their trust. Visitors spoke in front of the whole of Brooklyn, or not at all.

Race gave a careless shrug, and Spot felt a pang of envy. He never got to be careless about anything.

"I knew ya had it in ya, kid. I was off by how long it would take. I said—what was it? 'By the time you're fifteen, you'll rule this place.' And here you are: fourteen and king."

Spot was careful to hide how smug he was feeling. "So ya are bitter."

"Nah. Just don't wanna pay up, y'know? I hate makin' bets I know I'll lose."

Warm metal. Spot's fingers brushed against the gold tip of his cane, not quite used to it being there in his belt loop. He let a trace of a scowl cross his face.

"Whaddya mean by that?" He silently cursed the uncertainty in his voice. "Ya bet to win. Ya don't make bets ya know you'll lose."

"Sure I do. Ya gotta sometimes, to make sure people keep bettin' with _you_. Win all the time and ya end up losin' in the long run. Didn't ya know that?" Race watched him steadily, amusement shining in his eyes.

That was pushing it.

"Ya know what I know?" Spot asked, taking a step forward and relishing the fact that he was now at least an inch or two taller than Race. "I know that I killed guys older than you for a lot less than that."

"Oh, I know it." Race nodded and scratched the back of his head casually. "The whole damn city knows it. Spot Conlon is not one to be messed with; ya made that clear enough. Congrats."

Spot lowered his voice to a threatening level, mostly to keep his men from overhearing. "You don't talk down to me, Race."

"You're right, there. I talk up to ya nowadays, don't I? Half because of your standing, and half because of your height."

Spot, embarrassed, cleared his throat without thinking, then regretted the momentarily lapse of control. He knew in that second Race could see the fourteen-year old boy actually standing before him, as opposed to the image – the leader – the king that he was supposed to behold.

ii

"God damn, but you is a scrawny thing."

The words would have been offensive enough on their own. The fact that they were delivered by a person equally scrawny - if not more so – made it all the more annoying.

"Your mother," Spot declared haughtily, and spat on the ground. The remark showed his age (a month shy of thirteen), but it did its job nonetheless. Race snorted and laughed in spite of himself.

"As clever as you are fit. Impressed, I am."

"Impressed?"

"Extremely."

Spot shrugged. "I guarantee you'll be more impressed at cards tonight."

"I'm waitin' for it. Just don't try drinkin' again."

"Why's that? You sayin' I can't handle it?"

"Course you can't. On account of you being so scrawny."

They chuckled silently and Race rolled the dice.

CLICKclickclickclick…

The dice came to a jerky stop at the booted feet of a boy just as scrawny and twice as pale as the two of them. Both boys stood up immediately and nodded with respect. There was silence for a few seconds, but Race spoke first.

"Heya, Wit."

"Racetrack," came the curt response. Spot rolled his eyes inwardly. He knew that Race was one of Wit's closest friends – perhaps the best. But in the presence of any other Brooklynite, Wit treated him like a distant acquaintance, treated him like any other boy. Spot found this absurd. He wouldn't hide his feelings for anyone from anyone, especially if he was in power: that was certain. Besides, he was Racetrack – he wasn't like any other, so there was no sense in treating him like one.

"Spot," Wit said now, leaning on his cane and turning his attention to the younger boy. The cane top was shiny and gold-colored and glinted in the sunlight; Spot eyed it covetously. Wit coughed briefly and the dark circles beneath his eyes – already well beyond rivaling that of Race's – darkened considerably. Spot noticed his hair was looking lighter or thinner, a duller shade of brown than it used to be.

"Hello, Wit, sir." Spot ran some greasy strands of his own hair out of his face and shifted uncomfortably. "What're you doin' out here?"

"What do you mean, 'out here'?" The Cockney accent had recently been tinged with that of New York's, making it a strange hybrid of two radically different sounds. "I'm in Brooklyn, and last time I checked, I was running Brooklyn."

"Yes sir. It's your Brooklyn, sir."

"That is to say, our little operation here. Papes and whatnot. Not much, but it's all we've got, eh?"

It was this odd English modesty that baffled Spot. He was sure the "whatnot" bit covered a lot more ground than Wit was admitting, and it was disconcerting to have this guy not carry the appropriate attitude to go with it.

"Of course, sir. Our… little operation."

"Grand. Just grand—" Wit paused to release a particularly wet cough that went on for half a minute.

"I think what Spot meant to say, Witty," Race began as the coughing subsided, "is what're you doing outside your house?"

Spot had to admire Race for being the only one permitted to refer to Wit as "Witty."

"What the devil does it look like, Racetrack? I'm bloody walking around like any other human being. And more importantly, I'm walking around in my dashed city."

"It ain't good for you, Witty. Your mother's probably losin' it."

"What's good for me is my concern, though I appreciate it."

Race nodded, but Spot swore he could hear a heavy sigh whistle through his nose.

"I am here to let you know, however," Wit went on, "about the latest developments in this bar business."

"Ya mean Mickey's?"

Wit snorted. "Indeed. Mickey's. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be some sort of joke, that title, but we don't like it, agreed? So I'd like to visit tonight and lay down the owner's options for him."

"Which are?"

"Either he changes the name, because his name most definitely is _not_ Mickey and therefore there's no reason for it but to piss off two thirds of Brooklyn, _or_ we boycott that place."

"Boycott."

"Indeed, boycott. We – and of course I mean all of our men and anyone else we can influence, which is quite a number – won't be stepping foot in there again unless a change takes place by the end of the week."

Race slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically. "Sounds good. You want me to come with?"

"Of course, mate."

Spot gave a frustrated jolt. "What about me, Wit?"

The older boy eyed him warily.

"Mm, no thanks, m'boy. You've a bit of a temper, especially when your Irish blood is insulted. This could get a tad messy, though I certainly hope it will be avoided." He glanced at Race for approval, who readily agreed. He then looked back at Spot, who was visibly annoyed. "Best you stay here, Spot. Hold down the fort, eh? You're the only one I trust to do that."

Spot knew that was partly a lie – he obviously trusted Race to do it, too. Still, it was an honor to be so young and still relied upon to be in charge.

"And though you are Italian, Racetrack, I think all of Brooklyn has witnessed your loyalty to the, ah, Dublin persuasion, shall we say?"

"You betcha, Witty."

Again Wit coughed, but this time stopped himself quickly in time to smile, revealing a bottom row of crooked yellow teeth. He grinned at Race and Race grinned back, allowing traces of affection and concern and friendship to shine through.

Spot felt a sickening twinge of jealousy at this, so he occupied his thoughts with the little details. The more closely he observed their features, for example, the more Race and Wit looked rather alike. Not enough to be secretly related or anything, but alike the way close friends often took on each other's traits over time. Both seventeen, shortish and lanky, pale with sunken eyes, smirking their crooked smiles. The main difference lay in the fact that Wit's complexion was due to his illness, and it was getting worse by the day.

Spot smiled to himself.

i

Damn it. He needed a reason. He needed a reason to get Race the hell out of here, because he could sense there was only so long before his men would expect action. Luckily he'd been toying with something in his mind for just such an occasion. He stared at Itey.

"Itey, huh? Yeah, Italian through and through. 'S obvious." His head remained static as he looked from one face to the other. "'S funny. You two could be brothers, you'se look so much alike."

Neither knew what to make of that. It didn't sound insulting, but then again Spot didn't hand out compliments too often.

"Racetrack Higgins." Spot wasn't a man to repeat himself, and Race knew this. So hearing his full name said again carried foreboding, and he looked appropriately wary.

"'At's my name. Ya like the sound of it or somethin'?"

"Nah. Nothin' like that. I mean, it ain't bad, as names go. Could always be worse, right Bricktop?" Here he threw a look over his shoulder at a tall, domineering guy with a head full of red hair. Bricktop simply nodded, jaw clenched tightly shut and undoubtedly locking in any sort of retort. Spot's men had years of practice at this.

"'S just, I can't help thinkin' about it," he continued casually. "Racetrack Higgins. That last name o' yours is somethin' peculiar."

"What's funny about it?"

"Well, for one thing, you ain't Irish."

If there was one thing he was known for, it was his poker face, and Race used it now.

"Whaddya mean I ain't Irish? Ya don't know nothin' about my family."

Spot snorted. He'd have to do better than that. "Come off it, how long have I know you? You'se about as Irish as your pal here." He paused. He hoped the beat of silence would serve as a dramatic effect as he searched his memory for the word that he wanted. "I'd like to think me and me men are _authorities_ on the subject. Wouldn't ya say, Bricktop?"

"Yep." Bricktop never tore his eyes from the intruders; the fierceness of his loyalty was frightening to Spot. "Dem's both I-talians, alright."

"'At's what I thought." His lips curled into a smirk. He was questioning something nobody ever thought twice about; he was calling Race's bluff. "I'm Irish. We's Irish. You? You ain't Irish. But your name says otherwise, and that makes you a liar."

"My name ain't none o' your business," Race answered. It wasn't delivered in a heated or resentful manner, simply laid down as a fact.

"But Race, how am I s'posed to trust ya when your name itself is a lie?"

_Take the bait. Take the hint. Get the hell out of here. Let it go._

"Who says it's a lie?"

_Dammit, Race._

"This is the last time I'm sayin' it: you ain't got no Irish in you." He punctuated this remark with a knock of his cane against Race's leg.

Race blinked but made no further movement. "Your mother did the trick last night."

iii

They stood side-by-side on the bridge, leaning over the railing and gazing downward. The water churned dark gray, reflecting the sky above. A man pushed a wooden cart of the day's fish past them, the stench meeting Spot's nose and causing his stomach to churn similarly. He wasn't feeling too good.

Spot removed his eyes from the water and stole glances of Race instead. Seventeen and a half, but had the wits of a man twice his age. It was no wonder he was such an ace gambler – and an ace salesman of papes. He spoke the language of the elders, and he knew where to hit them to loosen change from their pockets. Likewise he spoke the language of the little ones, and looked after them as much as he used their naivete to his advantage (he always found a way to repay them, however, because that was Race, and Race had ethics).

"You're a good kid, Spot," Race would always say to him at the strangest times. It was like a reminder or something, but why Spot might have needed reminding he wasn't too sure.

These were the moments Spot secretly treasured most. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy he would have wanted to be his brother if he'd not been born an only child; the guy he would have wanted to die beside if they had been soldiers together in some great war; the guy he would have wanted to look after his kids if Spot ever wound up stuck with them.

Spot fantasized about the thousands of lives he could have lived – and might still live in the future – when he was next to Race.

"Spot," Race said quietly. He nearly jumped; a word hadn't been exchanged between them for a solid ten minutes.

"Yeah."

"Whaddya think of Wit?"

Spot thought Wit was a damn fool. He went to all the trouble of being a leader of the greatest place in the world, just to get consumption and cough the rest of his days away like an orphan girl selling flowers on the corner.

Spot thought Wit got to where he was because he was smarter than any person he'd ever met – smarter than anyone in Brooklyn had ever met. Spot thought this might have to do with his being English.

Spot thought Wit was a hell of a nice guy, and this was also partly how he'd gotten to his standing as leader. But Spot saw what happened to nice guys – they got sick and they slowly died. Spot never got sick and he'd be sure he never would, dammit.

Spot thought Wit didn't like him because Wit was intimidated to see the strength in others that he lacked in himself.

Spot thought Wit liked Race because he was proud to see all the good things in others that he felt slipping away in himself.

Spot thought it was amazing that someone who could barely get out of bed these days had so much power, so much authority. Sure, it was a small operation, "selling papes and whatnot," but in this life, that small operation was the world.

Spot thought a London-born loser like that was the last person who should be ruling over Brooklyn, and Spot thought, I'll be making some changes around here, someday. Someday I swear I will.

"Whaddya mean, 'Whaddoo I think of Wit'?"

"I mean…" Race bit his lip and quickly rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "You think he's dyin'?"

"Oh, that." Spot looked back out at the water. He knew Race was hurting. He knew Race was close to losing a good friend of his, but he remained solidly and reliably unaffected.

Spot liked the similarities they shared. They were fighters without having to work as hard as others did just to keep their heads above water; more importantly, they were winners. They commanded respect without having to ask for it; they held their heads high without the height to match. Nobody could read their expressions because they were born with poker faces – hard, imperturbable, indecipherable – but they could always read each other.

It was because of these similarities that Spot knew the two were in the running to take over as leader once Wit passed on – if he was, indeed, dying. But there was one difference, Spot noted, which was that Wit liked Race. Spot knew Wit would choose Race in a heartbeat, in his last heartbeat. But Spot also knew Race wouldn't accept, because he didn't want to be leader. Race didn't ever want to be leader, it was part of his character, which meant all Spot could do to achieve the only dream in his whole meager existence was to sit back on his heels and wait.

Spot knew he wouldn't be waiting long, and the thought made him feel a little better.

"Well? Ya didn't answer me."

Spot snorted. "He ain't got a chance in hell."

Race nodded and said nothing for a long time.

i

"Race, I'ma count to three. And let me tell you, if I ain't heard what you're here for by then, there's gonna be trouble."

Itey squeezed his eyes shut and made a slight whimpering sound. Race slapped him playfully on the back, though his face was serious.

"Relax, Itey. Nothin' to worry about, eh? In fact, why don't you deliver the news to Sir Conlon over here?"

Itey looked vaguely like he'd rather leap off the bridge and into the river, but conceded anyway. Spot, feeling very tired suddenly, watched Itey as the response was presumably collected in his mind.

"Well, it ain't bad news, first of all," the Italian boy began slowly and insistently.

"Oh-ho! What a relief. We sure was shakin' there for a minute." Spot chuckled and threw a smirk behind his shoulder. His men snickered back mechanically, and he was once again reminded that Race was one of the few Brooklyn boys who had a sense of humor.

"Yeah, well." Itey knitted his eyebrows together and continued. "Anyway, it's been confirmed that Jack Kelly is headin' up Manhattan."

Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Jack Kelly?"

"Yeah, Jack Kelly," Race cut in, impatience in his voice. "Ya know him?"

"Course I know him," Spot shot back. "Has that cowboy hat all the time. Can't say I'm a fan of the look, but he's the only Manhattan kid I like." He made sure these words landed their mark before returning his gaze to Itey.

"So, yeah," Itey pressed on, "as you may know, Jack's only been Ink's right-hand man for a year now, since he got outta the Refuge, but Ink says he's leader material and Ink wants to 'get the hell out of the city before it kills him.' His words."

"Uh-huh."

"So Ink split yesterday, and Jack took over. Jack's just what we need, I think," Itey remarked, glancing at Race for approval. Race nodded, eyes locked on Spot.

"So why the hell didn't this Kelly kid come to _me_ and tell me for himself? Not a good start, I'd say."

"You know what _does_ make it a good start?" Race interjected again. Spot looked at him with mild surprise. "He didn't have to kill anyone. Just spit-shook and the deal was done, easy as that." He threw his cigar away and Spot was quietly startled at the disgust he saw in the other's face. "Pretty good start, I'd say. The kind of beginnings Wit must've had."

That was it.

"Race, I want you outta Brooklyn now."

"'At's a coincidence, 'cause I've already decided I'm stayin' in Manhattan."

The anger that Spot was consciously waiting to unleash suddenly fizzled out.

"I see. So that's why you came."

"Yeah."

"That's it, then."

"Yeah, that's it."

Spot tried to smirk with affection, but he just couldn't push it through the mask he was now accustomed to. It came out cold and distant.

"I'll be back now and again, o' course," Race said casually. "And I'm sure we'll be seein' you on the other side of the bridge, too."

"Tell Kelly to come over here first."

"Will do."

A moment of silence passed.

"And another thing," Spot said after a great amount of thought. He raised his voice for the benefit of the others all around them. "This goes for all of you. I don't want Wit's name mentioned here again."

Race stared at him, expressionless. Itey looked confused.

"Wit's done, he's gone. Spot Conlon is your only leader in Brooklyn and should be the only one on your damned minds. Got it?" Grunts in the affirmative rippled through the variety of boys and men present. "Got it, Higgins?" Spot tapped his cane against Race's leg again sharply. In an instant Race grabbed hold of it and yanked Spot close to him.

"For your information, _Conlon_," he spat, his voice lower and more dangerous than Spot had ever heard it, "the name Higgins belonged to _Wit_. Before he died he asked me to take his name, and I did. So even if I never say those three little letters again, I will _never_ let you forget him."

He released the cane and Spot had to brace himself to keep from stumbling back. He could feel his men tense behind him, preparing for a fight.

Race glared at them, then back at Spot. "Nice cane, by the way."

iv

Spot stood before the tall, soot-stained building with interest. Moment of truth – he could feel it in the air. He could see it in Race's vacant stare, sitting alone on the stoop.

"Hey, Race," Spot said quietly. The latter boy looked up and then back down again, toying with something in his hand. It appeared to be a pocket watch. "Where'd ya get that?"

"Wit." He snapped it shut with a loud CLICK and tucked it in his pocket. When his hand removed itself from the vest, it contained a half-smoked cigar.

"A gift?"

There was a moment of silence as Race dug around for a match. "Yep."

"His last?"

He struck the match pointedly against the stone. "One of 'em."

Spot wasn't sure was this meant, but he knew better not to pry. He'd never seen Race so despondent, so hopeless.

"Ya can go in now, Wit says."

"You just been in to see him?" Race nodded. "How's he look?"

"About how you'd expect."

Well, that was that. Spot went up the stoop past Race, but was stopped suddenly by a hand on his arm. He met Race's eyes.

"You're a good kid, Spot. Smart, too. Ya know what's coming. I made that bet with ya the other day, and I'll stick to it. You're gonna be leadin', there's no doubt. I don't know how long Wit's got, could be days, could be weeks, but…"

Spot didn't know where this was going, and it looked like Race didn't either.

"You was born to lead, okay? Ya want it, you'll get it. Just don't—" Race wiped his eye with his sleeve, searching for the words.

"Don't what?" Spot was getting frustrated at the constant state of seriousness Race had been in lately. It was unnatural and more than a little disconcerting. "What the hell are ya talkin' about?"

"You're a good kid _now_, but don't lose it, y'know? I seen what power can do to a guy who's a little too hungry for it. It ain't good. Just… keep that in mind."

Spot smirked, satisfied with this. "Don't worry about it, Race. Besides, you'll be here to keep me in line."

Race didn't say anything, just sat puffing away and gazing at the ground. Spot had the feeling he'd be sitting there for a very long time. He went inside, up the stairs and down a long corridor before stopping before apartment number thirteen. He paused to collect himself, smooth his hair and pants until he felt like a leader, and stepped over the threshold.

There was coughing and it smelled like sickness, but the room itself was not so bad. Cramped and drab, but still – not so bad. Wit was on a bed by the window, looking damn close to decomposing. His mother, a frail, dark-eyed lady with an ever-present smile hanging faintly on her lips, sat in a rocking chair beside him. She looked at Spot and nodded.

"How do you do, young man. Here, take my chair." She had a soft English accent that was comforting to Spot.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, removing his hat. She got up and went to the stove, stirring a pot of what smelled like cabbage soup.

Spot crossed the room and stood over Wit, taking in the sight. It wasn't pretty by any stretch of the imagination – he just looked like a dying kid, with a face devoid of color and lips dry and chapped. It made him look young and helpless, more than a little pathetic to Spot. It was a stupid thing, getting sick. Wit opened his eyes and breathed scraggily.

"Spot. M'boy."

"Heya, Wit." He paused, watching Wit stare at something that didn't exist. This perturbed him more than he cared to admit. "Sir," he added out of habit.

"Enough of this… sir business. Siddown."

Spot consented and took a seat in the rocking chair. He liked it; it wasn't every day he got to sit in one.

"How do I look?" Wit asked with a faint chuckle.

"Like someone dying," Spot answered.

Wit stopped chuckling but kept smiling. "That's why you're to be leader, Spot. That honesty is a key quality, one not often found." He coughed and spit blood into a dirty handkerchief. Spot didn't blink, just waited respectfully.

"How the mighty have fallen," Wit sighed sarcastically as he regained composure. Spot raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "Spot, I worry about you. You seem to be awfully eager to take my place."

"Find it intimidatin', do ya?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort. It just seems so… shortsighted."

Spot felt his jaw tighten it a little. "Come again?"

"You're smart, you're strong, you're confident. Heading up a gang of newsboys isn't much of a goal, let me tell you."

Spot glanced at Wit's mother, busying herself with the soup, before responding.

"Ya know as well as I do, _Witty_, that sellin' papes ain't all we do."

"Ah, yes. Nevertheless, how long can you run something like that? What are your future plans?"

Spot sat back in the chair impatiently. "This is it for now. I'd like to hit fourteen before thinking about the rest of my life. If the rest of my life ain't being Brooklyn's leader, then let me at least get to that point first."

"Indeed. Well, you can have it. After all, one bloke's thrown-out suspenders becomes a bum's method of holding up his pants, eh?" Wit laughed at the confused look on Spot's face, but then coughed abruptly and stared up at the ceiling.

"Uh, Wit? Sir?" Again that wave of respectfulness passed through him. "How exactly did ya get this position, anyway? I never heard the story."

Wit smiled slightly and closed his eyes. "I assure you, it's nothing fancy. You've heard all about the glory days of past leaders, I'm sure, but not much from my own reign. That's because there's not much to tell."

It was good Wit had his eyes closed, Spot thought, because he couldn't keep himself from pulling a face of resentment at this.

"At any rate, it was right place right time. My father was Irish, but we lived in England. We'd been living well, and I got quite a good education up until age ten, when my pop unexpectedly died of a heart attack-ack-HACK." He wiped a little blood from his mouth and continued. "My mother took the little bit of saved up money, gathered up my baby sister and me, and we came to New York. Somehow, in Brooklyn, we managed to fit in and get along all these years."

"Um, I kinda meant the bit about being leader o' Brooklyn…"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, my mind keeps wandering. Um, like I said, it was right place right time. I got on with the chap who used to lead, I assume you've heard of Knotty? Well, I was the only kid he'd met who could read every word of the paper, even the bigger ones. Of course, once in awhile I'd come across words I didn't know, but I made them up and if someone questioned me, I quickly thought up definitions. The one thing I was good at was thinking on my feet." He chuckled sardonically. "Now I can't even stand on them."

"So you were smart, and that was it?" Spot asked, unimpressed.

"Pretty much. I was useful, I suppose. Knotty was killed in a… bar fight, if memory serves. It was ludicrous; all of Brooklyn considered it a waste and wanted less violence around here. So I was sort of 'elected' leader in an effort to make things a little smoother, more peaceful. Now everyone's bored and looking for the bar fights again."

Spot snorted. That was for damn sure.

Wit opened his eyes and looked at him. "I guess that's where you come in. You're what Brooklyn wants, really. I'm not sure what it needs, but you're what it wants. I'm sorry I can't pass on any words of wisdom, but I really haven't experienced enough in my seventeen years. Just do me a favor – no matter how much action you inject into this place, think before you make any decisions. You're clever enough to handle that, eh?"

Spot shrugged, annoyed but in agreement. They were both quiet for a moment.

"I'm going out to get some bread, Bertie," Wit's mother called from the doorway. She smiled at him, worry shining in her eyes.

"Okay, mum."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

She left. Spot smirked.

"Bertie?"

"Indeed." They sniggered.

"Hey, where's your sister, anyway? You said you had a sister."

"She died last year," Wit said flatly. "Consumption."

"Oh, I, um. Sorry." Spot kneaded his hat in his hands. "I didn't know."

"No one did. It's a leader's job to be strong and, therefore, somewhat detached from everyone else."

Spot nodded and allowed that to sink in. "Did Race know?"

Wit beamed. "Yes, Race did know. But Race isn't like the others. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that," Spot said, defiance raising his voice a little. He noticed that smile was different from all the others, too. It was a smile Wit seemed to reserve just for the Italian boy. Another moment of silence, broken by coughs and blood.

"What do you dream about, Spot?" Wit rasped finally, eyes closed again. He breathed hard, his chest rising and falling deeply. Beads of sweat had collected on his forehead, and one rolled down the side of his nose and across his cheek like a tear.

Spot blinked and looked over at the gold-tipped cane beside the bed. "Being king of Brooklyn." Wit grinned, amusement cutting through his ragged face. Spot resented this, but didn't tear his gaze from the prized possession. "Yeah, well. Whaddoo _you_ dream about?"

"Dying." The smile didn't disappear from Wit's face. The smile _never_ seemed to disappear from Wit's face. "Every God-damned night, the same thing. I see myself in a box with my cane, buried in the earth. This bloody disease is a terror because it doesn't do the job quickly. Don't know when it'll finish me. Every time I go to sleep I don't expect to be awake in the morning, but here I am."

Spot turned to stare at him, an odd sensation creeping into his stomach. Wit turned to stare back.

"How about we both have our dreams granted today?" he asked, voice quiet but clear as glass.

There was no way to respond to this, so Wit simply took the pillow from beneath his head and handed it to Spot. The latter took it slowly, noticing the bones jutting out from Wit's wrists.

"What the hell do you want me to do with that?"

"Use your imagination." He mopped the sweat off his forehead and his eyes bored into Spot's. "I'm tired of this. Mother's tired of it, too. We all need to move on, I think. I'm far past prepared, and you've been ready to take over since selling your first pape. Come now, it's written all over your face," he said at the look of protest Spot was giving him. He continued to smile serenely. "We're all ready, aren't we?"

Spot shook his head without thinking. He was startled to discover that he wasn't so sure.

"Please, Spot. Do this for me – for us. I'm done so you can begin."

Spot stared down at the pillow in his hands for a long moment. He then looked at the gold-tipped cane, and his lips curled into a cold smile.

i

"There's over a thousand eyes glarin' at ya right now. That's a thousand eyes with a thousand arms willin' to tear you apart at my command."

A challenge. He trusted his glare was piercing. Mirrors were hard to come by, and the reaction in the opposite boy's face had always served as mirror enough.

"Really? Dat's funny, 'cause I only see about forty."

Not a bat of an eyelash. Not a flicker of a smile. Spot was serious – as serious as Race had become.

"There's many hidin' places in Brooklyn."

"A bunch o' Brooklynites hidin' and spyin'. I see." There was uneasiness in his voice beneath the sarcasm. Spot took no pleasure in noting this; it was a common trait among everyone who paid him a visit. Still, Race glanced around and allowed a reliable smirk to twitch across his face. "We's playin' a game, Spot?"

Challenge returned.

"If we are, you ain't in on it, Race."

Like every other newsboy who had ever met him, he looked up to Race. It wasn't easy to look up when you were at the top, but there were times, late at night, when Spot managed to forget his position, forget about Brooklyn. There was no way to fall asleep like a leader, fall asleep like someone strong, mighty, unbeatable. There wasn't a way to submit to the body's necessity for sleep like one without weakness, because sleeping itself was a weakness - one that dominated Spot each and every night without struggle.

And there were times, in those moments before he gave in and lost consciousness, that Spot thought of his heroes. There weren't many faces represented, but Race's was always there, grinning affably and eyebrows crooked in skepticism.

The eyebrows that greeted him now were crooked in skepticism once again, but this time they were questioning Spot's capability for action. They were testing Spot, trying to figure out what he would do if he were pushed to the limit. There was a dare, there was a defiance, there was a rebellion.

There was a realization that one of the two boys had changed more than either cared to believe before now. But Spot had built an army – he'd trained them to fight with kid's toys, to do damage with playthings. He'd given them slingshots and pride and a sense of urgency to defend what was theirs. And now that he had an army, he needed a war to keep them busy. Exchanges like this could no longer occur casually and without underlying gravity.

They stared at each other for a moment that stretched on interminably. Spot allowed all feeling to drain from his face until his expression turned to stone – completely impassive to emotions, to empathy, to everyone. That was what his men were used to; that's what made him a leader.

Race leaned in as close as he risked and held out a handkerchief tied in a knot. Spot took it, felt the weight of at least twenty coins, if not more.

"The five bucks I owed you from that bet," Race said flatly, avoiding Spot's eyes and turning to leave.

And then Race's poker face momentarily failed him, and Spot could see that he was scared. He could see the weakness in Race he wished he had in himself. The disappointment was overwhelming; it hit Spot like a blow to the stomach, and for a moment he felt the muscles spasm and dare to collapse. He fought to keep his shoulders from slumping and tightened his grip on his cane. The two Italian boys walked away somberly.

_Race… I'm not sorry._

Because in Brooklyn, you couldn't afford to be.

* * *

_Author's Note: In my world, in 1899 Race was 19 and Spot was 15 (I'm going by Gabriel Damon's approximateage during shooting for the latter). I like to think of Spot as a young, eager punk with a thirst for power but lacking guidance. I admit my Race and Spot are probably way off base for most people's tastes, but that's the way I write 'em. For a far better fic about the two, I recommend Arlene's **Cut and Run**. It's amazing._

_I hoped you like Wit. Originally he was just going to be mentioned in passing by Race, and then he took hold of the story and forced me to develop him into this odd little Englishman. I'm glad he did._

_The name Bricktop is a reference to one of my favorite movies, **Snatch**. Check it out, if you're okay with violence._

_I'm not sure who the next Shoulders Short will be about, or when it will be written. But stay tuned nonetheless! It's bound to be weird or angsty or something._


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